Breaking Point
by Reiven
Summary: [Whump/Paralysed!Johnny] Nearly four years on, Johnny's finally completed his eighth task and Bodhi is still dead, until he isn't. In the end though, it wasn't the death defying feats that take Johnny permanently out of the game; it's an unfortunate moment of distraction and a seventeen year old with a gun and a piss poor aim.


**Breaking Point**

Three years, eight months and seventeen days.

That was how long it took him to complete all the eights task of the Ozaki 8.

At the end of it, when by some miracle he found himself still alive, still breathing; bumped and bruised but otherwise no worse for wear was when it really hit him.

He was alone.

Well and truly alone.

There was no one around to celebrate his success; to pat him on the back and smile widely with pride at his accomplishment.

There were no warm brown eyes gazing back at him from a bearded face crinkled with a once in a million smile.

Three years, eight months and seventeen days.

That's also how long Bodhi's been dead; lost to the raging rapids and the immensity of the ocean below.

But that was what he'd wanted all along and Johnny takes comfort in the fact that at the end, Bodhi went out exactly the way he wanted. Exactly the way he lived. Fast and wild and unpredictable.

And beautiful.

Oh so beautiful.

It was what first drew Johnny to the man; that and the immeasurable size of his spirit and his undeniable charisma.

He only hopes that wherever Bodhi is that he's looking down at him and that he saw all that Johnny's accomplished and that he knows that Johnny managed to accomplish it because Bodhi took the time, looked past the façade and the lies and saw something in him that he'd long been unable to see in himself. Bodhi gave him back his spirit but Johnny hadn't been able to return the favour.

Three years, eight months and seventeen days.

That's how long he worked and how hard he worked just so he'd be able to play equally as hard. Countless bumps and bruises and broken bones and times when he thought he probably wouldn't get out of this alive. But he had. At the end of every task, somehow he'd find himself still standing, looking out at the vast horizon laid out before him and the beauty of Mother Nature he tried so hard to give back to. Instead of going the route Bodhi had taken, he'd gone the way of Ozaki; the founder, to pay his respects to the great Mother for all she'd given while still respecting the lives she'd nurtured as well.

Bodhi and the criminal adrenalin junkies had long become a footnote in the files of the FBI, talked about but mostly forgotten. Those crazy guys who died the way they lived. Good riddance. One less burden for the tax payers to keep fed in prison.

They all said the same thing in hushed whispers quickly muffled whenever he walked into the room.

They all suspected him. Even in light of all the praise and all the commendations; all the medals awarded to him for his hard work in stopping these criminals. None of his peers looked at him the same way after that. They all could see that something had changed inside him. They could see the glint that had returned to his eyes, the spark snuffed out when one of the people he loved most fell off the edge of that cliff and he could do nothing but watch his slow and terrible descent. He still hears his terrified screams when he closes his eyes to sleep at night.

But he tunes out their scathing words and their scoffs. He does his job well; he minds his business, keeps his head down and tries to keep out of the crosshairs of his superiors and somehow he finds a way to make it work. He does what he needs to do to be able to do what he wants to during his spare time; his job paying to support his extracurricular activity and he manages to take a few scumbags off the street in the meantime. He considers it his way of giving back.

But in the end, it wasn't jumping down into the pitch black abyss or flying across the vastness of the skies or skiing down an icy death drop that does him in.

It's a seventeen year old high school kid with an illegal firearm and a pocket full of weed who didn't want to get grounded.

He feels the bullets ripping through his body in slow motion before the pain actually registers. But the pain goes away as quickly as it comes and as he's laying there on the cold hard pavement, trying to breathe in and out though the oxygen feels more like burning hot embers entering his lungs, he realizes something with a plummeting feeling of dread.

He can't feel his legs.

He can't breathe and he can't feel his legs and he can't call out for help or back up. He can only lay there helpless, feeling his life slowly seeping out of his body, dripping red as it stains the ground beneath his body.

He thinks of Bodhi in his final moments. Was he scared? Was he happy? What was he thinking before he disappeared beneath the surface of the water?

At least he went out doing what he wanted. He went out on his own terms. He didn't die in an unfortunate incident his superiors are going to have to begrudgingly write up and file away in the back of the file cabinet, away from prying eyes and forgotten.

He doesn't know how long he's out. When he comes to its while staring at the overly clean white ceiling above him and to the sound of beeps and hisses in the background. The next this he realizes is that oxygen is entering his lungs without him putting in the effort of inhaling; it's being pumped into his body and there's a tube in his throat and he can't speak, he can't swallow. He should be choking but he isn't. He should be suffocating but he isn't. It's a terrifying state, hovering in between reality and a nightmare, unable to do anything to protect himself. Unable to move or speak or ask for help. Not knowing what was going on or what happened or what was going to happen. Was he going to die? Was he already dead and he just didn't realize it? It was terrifying and lonely and Johnny thinks he'd be more than happy to welcome death at that point.

Sometimes through the haze, when he finds himself between agonising pain and claustrophobic numbness, he hears a voice calling his name and a hand on his arm, keeping him grounded. Forcing him to remember what's real and what isn't. Forcing him to remain present and not get lost in the abyss and the welcoming arms of the darkness. Sometimes he even manages to force his blurry eyes open but his gaze doesn't find what he's looking for. He doesn't even know what it is he's looking for. But just before his eyes slip shut again he thinks he sees a blob in his periphery leaning in close and a gentle voice calling his name. But then he doesn't remember any more.

He's in a coma for little over a week, or that's what his doctors told him. He doesn't remember any of it. He spends another week slipping between consciousness and unconsciousness and it takes more than two weeks before he feels like his mind finally belongs to him again. Before he actually finds himself alert and present and not like he was watching and listening to the world from deep underwater; always on the verge of drowning, but never actually dying.

He remembers Hall coming to visit and Pappas dropping by whenever he's in the country.

But neither are the voices he remembers hearing through the haze or the familiar warm touch he feels on his arm when it feels like he's sinking deeper and deeper into the void, pulling him back out with a gentle touch and a warm caress.

But that moment feels like a million years ago. It doesn't even matter. He doesn't hear the voice anymore and eventually it becomes like a distant memory that he isn't even sure actually happened.

All he knows is that life as he knew it was over. _His life_.

The word feels strange rolling off his tongue.

Paralysed.

Paraplegic.

It never used to apply to him. But in hindsight, he thinks it's only fate; Mother Nature's way of giving back to _him_ for Jeff, for Chowder; For Samsara. He has their blood on his hands and none of it washed away even when he had his own dripping through his fingers and trickling down his arm.

Now if only he could get his heart to accept it as easily as his brain and his logical side had, but it was a difficult pill to swallow. It was painful and hard, the hurdle felt insurmountable and it was terrifying.

He's scared and he's alone and that's the most terrifying part of everything.

Hall is sympathetic when he drops by, even Pappas actually tries to be nice, but it was just that; just bosses dropping by to see their injured subordinate. They were sad and apologetic, but ultimately he was now a useless pawn on their chess board. He'd been checkmated by the queen and he was no longer of any use to anyone. He couldn't even do anything for himself anymore and that was the worst part.

He can only guess how much effort the medical team put in to keep him alive during those first few days, how hard they worked to save his life. He's grateful but he's also regretful. He wished they'd just let him die. At least he would have gone out with dignity rather than a fraction and a shadow of the person he once was.

He goes to rehab and all it does is remind him of everything he once was, everything he could no longer do and the person he could no longer be.

Sometimes when he's sitting in his wheelchair after a hard afternoon of rehabilitation, staring out the window at the world and the earth still rotating in its axis, he thinks of how easy it would be to just throw himself off the ledge and just fall. He imagines the feel of the wind on his face once again when he's free falling to the ground, this time without anything or a blue gliding suit between him and certain death.

He'd welcome death with open arms at this point, the way Bodhi had. The way he wished he'd done more than four years ago when he watched the person he cared about disappear beneath the waves.

Hall said he was getting an honourable discharge and a medal for his bravery. What he meant was the FBI was washing their hands clean and he would no longer be their problem. He'd done his duty, he'd caught the bad guys, he finished his task but in the end he was left with nothing. No work, no friends, no family and no legs.

It didn't matter. He was getting discharged after almost four months languishing in the hospital recovering, regaining his strength; going through painful physical therapy and intrusive emotional therapy. Hoping that some stranger he didn't know who didn't know him would finally deem him fit enough to return to his life, to finally be free of the claustrophobic and suffocating atmosphere of the hospital. Hoping that some tool in a white doctors coat consider him okay when the fact is he isn't okay and he was never going to be okay again. He's pleasant enough to the shrink and to the doctors. _Pretending_ , it was something he was good at. Even the professionals couldn't tell that what he was looking forward the most about going home was the bottle of vodka he had in his cabinet and the variety of pills he was going home with.

He never thought his life would end up this way; that's he'd fall so far and so hard to the bottom that there was no realistic way of ever getting back out except by going out. Instead of going out with a scream and a bang, he was going to go out with a pathetic splutter and a wretched sob.

He wasn't supposed to be drinking, but that was the first thing he was going to do when he got home. When he actually managed to make it there.

He hadn't told Hall or Pappas he was getting discharged, he didn't want them there. He didn't want their help or their reassurance or their pity. He just wanted to leave and never look back. He left a note with the nurses to give to the men when they dropped by; something just for their eyes. Explaining why he left and why he didn't tell them. He just needed to get away; from the hospital and the doctors and the nurses, from the smothering feeling and pity in people's eyes and the overwhelming feeling of helplessness.

He has no feeling from the waist down and sometimes he wishes he couldn't feel anything at all.

He sits quietly in his wheelchair looking out his window at the world laid out before him. His minimal possessions were packed up in a small bag on the bed. The nurses had called a cab to take him home—or wherever he'd decide he wanted to go instead, maybe a bridge or a cliff.

His brain says a lot of things he doesn't really mean and suggest things he would never actually go through with. He feels like it's just a form of morbid catharsis for himself, one he doesn't share with anyone else especially not the shrinks. He's just tired all the time; mentally and emotionally. He's fatigued physically and sometimes he isn't even sure how he got this far with his progress. If he even wants to call it that.

He senses movement by the door and he assumes it's one of the nurses arrived to help him out and he can't wait to get the hell out of there. But he doesn't move. He can't tear his gaze away from the sight in front of him.

He misses it; the sky and the feeling of unhindered freedom. The freedom to able to do what he wanted, when he wanted. The freedom to live and die on his own terms. The freedom of being… _free_.

It was something he was never going to be again. He was always going to remain grounded; a prisoner of this chair, of this earth, of his own body. Not being able to get it to move the way it did, the way he used to be able to and the way he wanted. He never really experienced the feeling of claustrophobia before until he found his own skin, his own body that he took care of and worshipped; that he pushed to the brink with every task, with every death defying feat he undertook, that he took for granted for so long; until it became his prison.

"Ready to go, Utah?"

He hears the words but it doesn't really register in his mind what was actually said. It doesn't even occur to him that he hadn't heard that name in years or the fact that the voice saying it was painfully familiar.

He doesn't turn around until he feels a strong hand grasp him on the shoulder, brushing against his hair that had grown out almost down to his shoulder. The grip isn't rough and the touch isn't unfamiliar but he isn't in a rush to turn around and find the source. The truth is he's afraid. Afraid that it would all turn out to be a dream, a figment of his own imagination.

The moment he felt the touch on his shoulder his heart began thundering in his chest, not in fear or apprehension, but in hope. A hope that in all logical sense should turn out to be unfounded. It should be impossible, but no one told that to his heart or the hopefulness slowly blossoming inside his chest.

He remembers a voice calling his name through the darkness. He remembers the familiar warm hands on his; holding his hand, stroking his cheek and fingers brushing through his hair. But that was just a dream.

Wasn't it?

But this hand. This touch. This looming figure standing behind him. It's all real. It's all actually there and he chances the small spark of joy blooming inside his heart. For the first time in months, he feels like he actually has something to look forward to in the next moment.

Dark green scrubs is the first thing he sees, covering a broad chest and a smooth, clean face, so familiar yet so foreign. A clean short hairstyle, lacking the long wavy quiff that was constantly being brushed away from the familiar face. The person himself, so familiar yet so unfamiliar.

But it was the eyes; the eyes were still exactly the same. Warm and brown yet tumultuous, with an undercurrent of danger constantly brimming beneath the surface.

Johnny finds himself at a loss of words, unable to do anything but stare dumbfounded at the person standing in front of him. The person who was supposed to be dead. The person who had been dead for more than four years, leaving him behind to drown in a pool of what ifs and regret. The person who'd given him back his life and unintentionally snatched it all away. The person who'd come to mean more to him than he ever would have expected.

"Bodhi," the name comes out as more of a shocked exhale than an actual statement.

"Utah," he replies, a small, sad smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

But Johnny can't find it in him to return the sentiment. His heart is still pounding against his ribcage and his immediate first instinct is to jump to his feet and take a step forward, to bring himself closer to this shadow of his past, this memory of a happier time in his life, but then reality comes crashing back and he _remembers_. He feels the cool metal of the chair under him and the rubber types under his fingers and he can't keep his emotions at bay any longer.

He hasn't cried. Not once. He didn't cry when he was bleeding out in that cold alleyway by himself, knowing that death was all but knocking at his front door. He didn't cry when he woke up in the hospital, confused and in pain, alone and abandoned. He didn't cry when the doctors told him that the bullet had ripped through his spinal cord and they'd done everything they could. He didn't cry when the nurses came by to change his dressing and clean his wounds. He didn't cry during rehabilitation, no matter how painful it was, no matter how difficult it was, not matter how bleak it showed his future was going to be. He didn't cry once.

The sting of tears in his eyes is a foreign feeling and a feeling he never wanted to experience, much less in front of this person before him, staring down at him with an expression that was a mix of sadness and regret and compassion. He hates it. He hates seeing those emotions flashing through those eyes where it didn't belong. He hates feeling so useless and helpless and broken. He hates feeling the warm tears trickle down his face, dripping off his chin and leaving wet droplet stains on his pants that he can't even feel.

He hates it even more when he feels strong hands grab him by the shoulders and pull him into safe and comfortable embrace. He hates that he reciprocates the hug so easily and so willingly, circling his arms around the strong chest and grasping desperately at the material covering his back. He hates that he wants this so badly and so desperately. He hates how much comfort and safety he finds in the embrace. He hates feeling like he never wants to let go again.

But he pulls out of the embrace almost remorsefully and wipes away the tear tracks on his face, keeping his attention on anything and everything besides the person crouched in front of him. Bodhi's hand is still on his shoulder and he doesn't want him to take it away. The simple gesture and the touch reassure him that this is all _real_. That he isn't dreaming. That he isn't still in the coma. That his mind wasn't drifting off somewhere safe while his body continued wasting away in the hospital room.

"You're alive," he manages those words out when it's clear that Bodhi has no intention of initiating the conversation.

"Since you're currently looking at me and talking to me, I certainly hope so," he says in a light-hearted tone. Johnny doesn't realize how much he missed hearing that voice until he hears it and Bodhi is looking at him with that gaze that's always too intense and too piercing. "You've certainly outdone yourself this time, Utah," he adds, glancing down at the wheelchair.

It's the combination of the surprise and relief at seeing this person alive and breathing and right there within reach; seeing the familiar lack of fear and cool indifference, always straight to the point but never malicious, only realistic; not beating around the bush or tip-toeing around him that brings a long absent smile to his own face. He even lets out a small chuckle and the sound seems so foreign to his own ears. He doesn't think he's heard himself laugh in years.

Bodhi smiles at his reaction and its striking sight to behold.

"What's with the scrubs?"

"It's for the cameras, in case someone unwanted decides to take a look. Just another random nurse accompanying a patient out of the hospital."

"And the actual nurse? You didn't kill him did you?"

"What do you take me for?" he asks and he actually sounds a little put out by the insinuation. He pulls something out of the pocket of his pants and holds it up to Johnny on an open palm.

Johnny actually lets out a genuinely laugh this time when he sees what it is. "Thought I lost that," he says, unable to tear his gaze away from the shining badge Bodhi is holding out to him, engraved with the bolded letters of the FBI.

"Just another random FBI agent accompanying his colleague out of the hospital," Bodhi says, sounding a little too smug about the whole thing. "So…ready to bust out of this joint?"

Hearing those words coming out of his mouth, so strange and so wrong but at the same time so right; for a minute all the pieces of the puzzle just seems to fall into place and for that short minute he can forget his problems and all the hurdles still in his way. He can forget about his worries and his fear because right then, right there with this man who's come to mean so much to him in such a short period of time, for the first time in a long time he doesn't feel so alone.

He watches as Bodhi shuffles around the room, grabbing things he'd forgotten to pack and his jacket, handing everything to him before moving around to grab the handle of his wheelchair; wheeling him out of the suffocating room across the suffocating white hallway towards freedom.

For the first time in a long time, Johnny actually feels like maybe everything will be okay.

There's a nice car waiting in the parking closest to the hospital. Bodhi's still in the green scrubs when they head down the seemingly endless halls of the hospital but he immediately puts on the jacket Johnny hadn't noticed him bring as they exit. Zipping up the front and hiding the familiar great outfit from outside eyes.

The air on the outside is fresh and invigorating and he finds himself feeling better in those few minutes than he has in the past four months. He takes a moment to just breathe and take in his surroundings; the feel of the wind ruffling his hair and the warmth of the sun on his face. Bodhi lets him have his moment. He doesn't say a word or move to rush him; he just stands silently by his side, looking out at the same sights Johnny is completely enthralled by.

It's such a peaceful, normal moment between the two of them, unlike anything they'd ever felt before but somehow it just felt right.

Until it comes time to get into the car.

Johnny watches as Bodhi puts his bag and his jacket into the backseat and manoeuvres his wheelchair by the open passenger side. He can't even look at Bodhi while his brain is running through all the possible ways he'd be able to get into the car without falling on his face and making a complete fool of himself. Before he can even decide anything he senses rather than sees Bodhi sidle up beside him and drops down to a crouch beside his chair, taking his right arm and slinging it over his own shoulder.

"No," he says after realizing to his own humiliation what Bodhi was about to do. "Just—don't…"

Every dark thought, every single moment of uncertainty and indignity he'd experienced during the last few months, all of it comes crashing back to him in that one moment.

"Utah," Bodhi starts, looking him straight in the eyes; his gaze uncompromising and stern but not without compassion. " _Johnny_ ," he amends after a beat. "You've been dealing with this on your own this whole time. Just…let me help you this once."

Johnny is just absolutely exhausted in every way and he thinks it's obvious when he doesn't immediately shoot down Bodhi's plea. He thinks it's only because it's Bodhi and nothing about him has ever reeked of pity in anyway no matter the circumstance. But there's also something about the look in his eyes that Johnny just can't look away from. Bodhi is almost on his knees beside him; one hand still latching onto the arm he'd flung over his shoulder, but not once does that act come across as anything other than practical. Just something that needed to be done. He needed to be lower to look Johnny in the eye to talk to him and so he lowered himself to do it. Even the plea to help was just that, to make it easier on the both of them to get out of there before someone walked by and somehow recognized Bodhi as the wanted criminal that should have died four years ago.

He inhales deeply and relinquishes his grasp on the armrest of his chair, in a way surrendering himself to Bodhi; putting aside his feeling of embarrassment and shame when he sees rather that feels Bodhi reaching an arm under his legs and around his back and with a heave and surprisingly little effort, lifts him up out of his chair and deposits him almost immediately in the passenger seat.

He's thankful that Bodhi gives him a moment to himself in the car after he closes the door while he folds up the wheelchair and stashes in the trunk in the back.

Johnny forces himself to inhale deeply through his nose and exhale slowly to calm the anxiousness he can feel bubbling up. He never used to suffer from anxiety, but never was only four months ago and it already felt like a lifetime. He has his eyes closed, leaning the back of his head against the headrest of the seat as he tries to calm the too fast thumping of his heart. He doesn't notice Bodhi entering the vehicle until he hears the ignition and Bodhi's voice asking, "Ready?" from the driver's seat.

It takes a moment before he turns to the expecting face looking back at him. Bodhi needs to grow his beard back out, it's the first thought that comes to him. Looking at the smoothness of his face is unnerving on several levels.

"Yeah," he says finally.

"Buckle up," Bodhi says as he puts the car in gear. "Also, I'd lay off the cheeseburgers, man."

Johnny chuckles at the comment, somehow feeling a little bit less tense at the utter normality of the situation and the way Bodhi is acting about it. It was something he didn't know he needed and it felt good to laugh.

Bodhi's grin is wide and toothy and oh so beautiful and Johnny has a hard time tearing his eyes away.

As he watches the reflection of the hospital disappear into the distance; the wind from the open window ruffling his hair, whipping it back and forth in his face, until he finally caves and gathers it all into a lose knot; with Bodhi by his side and the depressive black cloud that had loomed over him for too long left in the rear view mirror, Johnny thinks for the first time in a while that things were maybe going to be okay.

"Where have you been?" he hears himself asking, not tearing his gaze away from the variety of greenery whizzing past his window. Bodhi handed him a pair of sunglasses that he accepted absentmindedly. It felt weird being out in the world again instead of looking at the world from afar and the little window of his too cold room.

Bodhi takes his time answering, gaze focused fully on the open road before him. "Here and there. Travelling mostly. Surfed a wave or two—nothing over five feet. Trying to make up for my past crimes against Mother Nature, you know, the usual shit."

"How—how did you survive that? I thought for sure you were dead. And for the past four years, it's been true."

The question sobers Bodhi up almost immediately and when he answers Johnny knows that it's the irrevocable truth. "I—I don't know. I've been asking myself that same question every day for four years."

Bodhi actually looks saddened by his own words and Johnny thinks he can understand.

"Why'd you come back? Why risk it all when you were already free?"

Bodhi looks like he's seriously giving the question some thought before answering. The road ahead stretches out into the horizon and there aren't any other cars around. Johnny realizes that they passed his place almost three miles back but he doesn't think it's the opportune moment to bring it up. Bodhi turns to him, while sporadically glancing over to the road ahead, juggling the driving and holding Johnny's gaze as he answers in completely seriousness. "Because of you."

Johnny feels a warmness ignite deep inside his chest. He doesn't want to get ahead of himself just because of those three simple words. "H-How long have you been here? In town? How—when did you come back?"

Bodhi holds his gaze this time and Johnny is the one who is forced to look away to make sure they were still driving down the right side.

Bodhi answers while his gaze is averted and the words caused his own heart to skip a beat. "Four months ago," he says. "I came back four months ago, because of you. _For_ you."

His throat feels too dry all of a sudden and he swallows the accumulated saliva before he asks again; the question that had been in the back of his mind since the weeks in the hospital he couldn't remember. "You were there at the hospital when…when it first happened?"

Bodhi looks him straight in the eye this time when he answers, "Every night."

Johnny thinks he's forgotten how to breathe. The chill running through his spine stops short at his lower back but he can't even bring himself to care. He keeps replaying those words over and over in his brain. Every night. Every _night_. _Every_ night. _Every night_. Just for him.

"How?"

"Oh you know. Just a random FBI agent keeping watch over his injured colleague in case the criminal comes back to finish the job."

Johnny wants to ask why he stopped coming by after he woke up but he doesn't want to push his luck.

"I didn't," Bodhi says instead, interrupting his thoughts.

"What?"

"What you're thinking," he says like it supposed to answer all his questions. "I didn't stop coming. It just…became too dangerous to show my face too obviously." He isn't looking at Johnny when he answers, staring unblinking into the distance before him. "That first week was—it was tough. I was in Peru when I saw the news article about the shooting on the internet. I didn't know if you were alive or dead when I came back. But I just took a chance and you were still there. In our line of work, at the end of the day you either live or your die. There's no in between. But there were you, in between life and death and—and there was nothing I could do to help you."

Johnny doesn't answer and he knows Bodhi isn't expecting one as they both lapse into silence. What do you even say to a statement like that?

"You know, you missed my apartment like ten miles back."

He sees the grin on Bodhi's face out of the corner of his eyes. "Didn't I tell you? You moved."

"Did I?"

"Yes you did. I was going to tell your but the topic just didn't come up." There was a mischievous grin on Bodhi's face that Johnny doesn't think he's ever seen before and he can't find it in him to even pretend to be annoyed. There really was no need to ask any more questions after that; he was probably only going to get some vague non-answer and a cheeky grin. Besides he trusted that Bodhi had given this plan a whole lot of thought. He was nothing if not meticulous.

He glances over at the man by his side; watching the familiar silhouette of his face against the bright backdrop outside the window and the vast ocean stretched out in the distance. They'd been driving for hours and he could see the tell tales signs of the sun disappearing into the horizon. The drive is quiet, peaceful, away from the hustle and bustle of the big city and the confining feeling of the white walls of the hospital. The world outside his car window is vast and endless and being here in this moment with Bodhi by his side and his presence a promise of better things to come; Johnny finally feels like he's alive again.

"Any chance you gonna tell me where exactly we're going?"

Bodhi spares him a lopsided grin. "It's a surprise."

Instead of interrogating him further which would no doubt prove futile, Johnny allows a small smile to escape before he pulls out his phone and pulls up the familiar name in his message folder. He types out a simple message to Hall, explaining in short text why he left without saying goodbye and that he was moving away to live with… _family_ , and to not worry about him anymore.

Technically it wasn't really a lie.

He presses send and after a few seconds of waiting to make sure the message actually went through, he tosses the phone out of his window off the side of the cliff and down to the rocky shallows below.

"So did you find it?" he asks after a beat, turning to look at Bodhi. "Nirvana?"

Bodhi chuckles before glancing over at him. "I just did."

Once again, the man manages to leave him completely at a loss of words.

By this time, the sun is already half gone, seemingly being swallowed up by the large body of water expanding into the horizon. Johnny feels the tell-tale signs of cramps building up in his back and the legs he can no longer feel. It was rather ironic really. He doesn't want to say anything to spoil the perfection of this moment but Bodhi must have noticed his pain and his discomfort because he pulls up onto the side of the road where a small plot of grassy land stretches out close to the precipice of the cliffs; only a guardrail providing protection from the steep hundred foot drop to the rocks below.

Bodhi steps out without a word the moment he parks and turns off the engine. Johnny doesn't have to turn around to look, hearing the sound of the trunk being opened and the clanking of metal when he pulls out his wheelchair. Instead he opens the door on his side and lifts his legs up and out of the car, waiting for the other man to come around with his chair.

This time Bodhi doesn't say anything and Johnny doesn't resist, but instead of carrying him out of the chair into the car seat like he'd done when they left the hospital, this time Bodhi just lifts him up and lowers him back gently onto his chair. It's only their second try at this and already it feels like they're both actually getting the hang of it. Everything might actually end up working out.

But instead of walking around him and wheeling him over to the guardrail at the end of the cliff overlooking the ocean below, Bodhi just takes a step back and turns around, walking at a slow pace towards the grassy area; not making a big deal of what he'd done and allowing Johnny that last bit of independence of getting himself to the destination without help. Without feeling like someone thought he needed help.

Bodhi was helpful and compassionate but he wasn't overbearing. He knew when to give back and when to reel in his protective instinct.

Johnny appreciated what Bodhi was doing and how he was treating this. How he was treating _him_ , like even though everything about him had changed, Johnny himself hadn't.

They find themselves side by side near the edge. Bodhi bending down to rest his elbows on the metal rail that stretched across the length of the steep cliff.

Just this afternoon, Johnny was thinking about getting a cab to drive him to a bridge or a cliff so he could throw himself off.

But here he was just hours later, beside the man he'd come to cherish so much looking out towards the sun setting in the distance. The colours of red and yellow and orange dancing almost in unison across the sky.

"Gorgeous, isn't it?" Bodhi asks.

"Yeah, it is." Johnny finds himself answering without turning to look at the man beside him. When he finds nothing but silence and the eerie feeling of someone's eyes on him, he finally averts his gaze to look at Bodhi.

What he finds is Bodhi's gaze locked firmly on him and not the horizon; like he's been staring only at Johnny all along. He can't help the sheepish smile or the blush he can feel creeping onto his face. "Absolutely beautiful," he adds without breaking eye contact and this time it puts a smile on Bodhi's face in return.

All of a sudden, Bodhi pushes away from the rail, takes a few steps back and drops down to a sitting position on the grass under his feet and beckons for Johnny to do the same.

He's hesitant at first, but he has Bodhi there to help him; without out a secret agenda or an ulterior motive. Without needing a reason other than the fact that he just wanted to because he… _cared_? Johnny didn't want to get ahead of himself even in the privacy of his own mind. He wheels back his chair nevertheless, close to where Bodhi is currently sitting, legs splayed out in front of him. He gets to his feet the moment Johnny locks the breaks on his wheelchair and walks over without hesitation to lend a helping shoulder and two arms that are too strong to be real.

The next moment, they're sitting side by side on the cool grassy land, watching the last bits of the sun disappear into the darkness. Johnny has his arms behind him, propping him up and his legs stretched out in front of him. All of a sudden Bodhi scoots closer and circles an arm around Johnny's shoulder and pulls him close, allowing him to use his chest to lean against and they watch the last beams of light shooting outwards before the entire surrounding area is plunged into darkness. And then it's just them and the distant sounds of seagulls flying off into the horizon.

It isn't pitch black; the moon had risen up out of the darkness in the absence of the sun and shining down the dewy yellow rays over the tops of the cliffs and the rooftop of the black car glinting behind them. But other than that, it's just them, the moon rays and the silence and Johnny doesn't think he's ever experienced anything so peaceful. He only hears the sounds of Bodhi breathing beside him and the thumping of his heart that he can feel through the contact of their bodies; resounding almost in synch with the beating of his own heart.

"Thanks for staying alive," Bodhi says and Johnny turns up his gaze to look at him. Finding the warm brown eyes looking back at him brimming with emotion and intensity only Bodhi could channel through his gaze alone.

"Thanks," he says after a pause, reaching up with his left to grab the hand on the arm circled protectively around his shoulder, "for being alive and for coming back for me. I don't know how I'll ever be able to repay you."

Bodhi scoffs but not in a malicious way as he latches onto the hand grasping his and holds onto it in a tight grip. "You already have." When Johnny just looks back at him with a confused furrow in his brows, he adds, "You gave me nirvana."

And that's how their story truly started. He doesn't know how it was going to turn out. He doesn't know what path the future had laid out for them or if they were even going to follow that path together but all he knew was that in this moment, with this man who meant everything to him; who was willing to stand beside him, or sit beside him when need be; this person who didn't see him as any less of a man or any less of a person because of things he could no longer do; he just knew that he was finally on the right track back to recovery, both physically and spiritually. They were both broken men. Maybe somehow they'd end up fixing each other.

Maybe this was what Ozaki had been chasing all along.

Maybe in the end, Nirvana wasn't such an abstract concept after all.


End file.
